playing chicken
by cupid-painted-blind
Summary: But then, they'd always been playing chicken with their hearts. —- Emma, Hook, and a hotel room with only one bed. Based vaguely on spoilers involving Captain Swan in New York City.


—_playing chicken_

prompt from narrativelyspeaking on tumblr: "he lied to her, and this time she didn't say a word." this got five-hundred-and-thirty-seven flavors of out-of-hand.

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Hook — wait, no, _Killian,_ even in New York, she couldn't exactly go around referring to Captain Hook, especially when he still refused to give up the damn I-am-clearly-a-pirate-or-very-much-want-to-be-one leather coat — had not been her ideal curse-breaking partner, if only because of his total lack of experience with the land without magic; in fact, the ideal partner, objectively speaking, would have been Neal, but she was _vehemently_ opposed to the thought of going on a road trip of undetermined length with Neal, and she doubted that she could find a way to break any curse while fighting just to breathe against the past.

But Killian had, as expected, volunteered, and since she couldn't exactly come up with a convincing list of reasons why he was better suited to this mission than Neal, she decided that they should get on the road as soon as possible, before word got out about their destination.

She'd deal with Neal's reaction later; at any rate, David had quietly agreed to cover her back when he inevitably asked after her, so maybe it wouldn't be too difficult, assuming David was somehow better at coming up with excuses than she was.

She didn't care. She cared about fixing things before they blew up in her face (again), she cared about keeping her son safe (again), she cared about protecting the town _(again)_ — there wasn't any room to care about how reckless she was being with her heart.

Killian, for his part, hadn't commented on it; she was grateful, and a little disappointed.

It was late when they got into outskirts of the city, and Emma was _far_ too tired to go hotel-hopping, so they stopped in the first decently-non-threatening hotel off the interstate.

But it was late, and all the rooms the hotel had left were singles, and maybe she was leaning a bit heavily on the "exhaustion" excuse, but she accepted the room, justifying it as being reasonably-priced and immediately available and studiously ignoring the fact that this meant either someone would be sleeping on the floor (and Killian "Always a Gentleman" Jones would never let her sleep on the floor), or they'd be sharing a bed.

(She wondered if it was self-delusion to think that maybe this would end innocently; the look David had given her when she'd said she was going to New York and Hook was coming with her said that she was deluding herself if she thought she _wasn't_ going to have sex with him at some point over this trip, and everyone knew it.)

Ignoring her screaming better judgment, she led Killian up to their room on the fifth floor — he was, somewhat disappointingly, not openly confused or fascinated with the elevator, apparently just writing it off as "this world's equivalent of magic, don't bother asking" — where she likewise ignored the look he gave her when he saw that there was only one bed.

He _did_ watch her with needle-sharp eyes, though, as she busied herself with pulling a change of clothes from her bag, apparently trying to decide whether or not to read into the one-bed thing, and came down on the side of caution.

"I take it this inn lacked more… suitable rooms?" he asked, voice guarded, and she shrugged.

"Yeah, but I'm way too tired to find somewhere else. It's a big bed," she added, waving a hand dismissively and determinedly _not _looking at him as she walked into the bathroom.

As if _that_ accomplished anything.

_What the hell am I doing?_ she asked herself under her breath, turning on the water and testing it for temperature. _What the hell am I doing, what the hell am I doing_…

.

Her choice of nightwear — a (very) oversized t-shirt — also probably could have been thought through better, but she hadn't thought this would come up, or, rather, had _very carefully_ decided not to think this might come up; the worst decision, however, was to notice him standing at the desk, removing his jewelry, wearing nothing but a loose pair of pants he'd probably been given by (or stolen from) David.

(_Two could play this game_, she thought. But then, they'd always been playing chicken with their hearts.)

He had a few scars on his back, and she had reached out to touch one of them before her brain could catch up with any other part of her body; she removed her hand immediately when he glanced over his shoulder, and cursed internally.

There was nothing for it. "What happened?"

He raised an eyebrow, replied, "Which one?" and something inside of her twisted a little against her will. She shouldn't have been surprised, she'd personally seen how much damage he took on a regular basis, and it had always been obvious, even when he'd been fully clothed, that he'd gotten hurt a lot in the past, but looking at him like this, looking at all the scars and broken pieces… it was much more _real._

"Right," she muttered, turning away and making for the bed. "Pirate, Neverland."

He gave a short, breathy laugh, but she didn't turn back around, just shifted to the far edge of the bed and waited for him to get in on the other side to turn off the lamp; an awkward silence fell _hard._

Emma wasn't sure how long she lay there, eyes wide open and staring at the window — nothing but an orange street lamp and the occasional distant growl of a car to fail to distract her — trying very, _very_ hard not to think about the fact that he was _this close _and there was _no way_ he wasn't just as awake as she was and thinking (probably in lurid detail) about the things she was trying (and failing) not to think about.

She shivered, but it didn't have anything to do with the cold, and her fingers twitched underneath the pillow, body going where her mind wouldn't; she shivered again, drawing her knees up and then back down, and the bed was the typical hotel sort with the squeaky springs that didn't allow for secrets, and so of course he felt her shivering and _of course_ he would take the initiative because he was probably _losing his mind_ just as completely as she was.

Still, she jolted slightly when his hand came to rest on her shoulder.

"Cold, darling?" he murmured, and she glanced back at him even though it was too dark for details.

"Forgot to turn the heater on," she said, half of a lie — she really _had_ forgotten, and it really _was_ pretty cold in the room — and he chuckled, _entirely_ too close.

"Well, love, there are ways of warming up," he replied softly; her body answered for her and shifted back to settle against him, and he responded exactly as she thought he would, hand running down her arm to take hers and pull her even closer.

It should have been the sort of thing to lull her to sleep — warmth, tucked into someone else's arms, she remembered this being comforting in the past — but the contact was electric under her skin and only made her agitation worse.

She'd be lying if she said she was surprised.

But he didn't make another move, except to idly rub circles into her palm, and she held out for another moment before it sort of just — _snapped,_ in her skin and in her mind, because _who was she kidding?_ At the same time, she was oddly reluctant to act overtly or say anything outright, like this was some sort of — of _test,_ of herself and of him, of their connection and how much she could tell him without words.

She shifted against him under the guise of getting warmer, until she was entirely flush against him; he exhaled heavily and likewise shifted, just a little, just so there was a bit of space between them.

She countered his move, and after a moment of stilled hesitation, he challenged her, fingers tightening on her hand and pulling her closer this time instead.

(There wasn't enough fabric between them to conceal his growing arousal, but that was the _point,_ wasn't it?)

No turning back.

She shifted down a bit this time; he responded by sliding his hand up to grip her upper arm, almost hard enough to bruise, and rose so his mouth was level with her ear.

"What is it that you want from me, Emma?" he murmured, breathy and tense, running his hand down her side to grasp her hip.

She turned slightly toward him, enough so she could feel his breath against her cheek, not speaking — she didn't quite know what to say, and at any rate, speaking now would break the spell — his fingers — cold, callused — skittered low across her stomach, right above the band of her underwear; she inhaled sharply.

He moved slowly at first, warily sliding his fingers underneath, waiting for her to stop him or push him away; when she didn't, and instead turned just a little more toward him, opening her legs just a little more, he went for it, and she gasped as he pressed a finger against her clit, rubbing a slow, agonizing circle that drew an almost-unwilling low moan from low in her chest.

He smirked against her neck, kissing her hard as he slid a finger inside her and her hips jerked against his hand, and maybe something in him snapped like it had in her, because he growled and bit down on her neck — she gasped again, a sharp, abbreviated sound — and began moving faster, harder; she fisted her fingers in his hair and drew him around to kiss him breathlessly, but it was cut off quickly as he slipped another finger inside; her hips bucked again and her back arched, a small, desperate cry pressed against his lips, lost as he inhaled sharply.

She shuddered hard against his fingers, her nails dragging down his scalp to his neck, clinging to him as he rode out her climax; she didn't hear him breathing her name into her neck until she was coming down and he was pulling his fingers out, hand immediately moving to her hip to wrench her panties off, with a low, urgent groan from deep in his chest as he kissed her roughly and pushed himself on top of her.

Her hands, shaking and scrabbling, tugged at his pants, shoving them lower and stroking him once before pushing him away — he gave a short cry of dismay — and down onto his back, straddling his hips; his hand ran up under her shirt and tugged it over her head, but didn't return to her as he sat up onto his elbows.

_What the hell was he_ — she drew in a sharp breath as the lamp came on and he flickered into view, looking _wrecked,_ hair a mess and eyes, dilated with lust and something more, locked on her as his hand returned to her hip.

"I'm more of a lights-off kind of girl," she breathed, a strange, deep fear settling into her gut — of course, of _course,_ he'd want to see her reaction, look her in the eyes, of _course_ — his hand rose up to tangle in her hair and pull her down closer, and — breath hot against her lips, fingers tight against her neck, left arm on her lower back —

"What are you so afraid to show me?" in a dark murmur, before kissing her again, letting her hide the answer she couldn't speak into his lips, letting it fall on his breath instead of hers.

He shoved himself up further into a half-sitting position and pulled away only far enough to breathe, fingers tight on her hip but neither pushing nor pulling — _excellent show of self-control_, she thought, a little hysterical — waiting for her to make the move.

_What are you so afraid to show me?_

Everything.

Nothing.

Against the distant terror in the back of her mind, against the decade of nameless men and everything that had always made her run from him, she held his gaze as she slowly lowered herself onto him, mouth opening in a shuddering breath in time with his exhale.

_No turning back._

He kissed her desperately when she began to move, rolling her hips as he rose to meet her, his hand trailing down her neck to her breast and lingering there, caressing her with increasing force; he broke the kiss abruptly and pulled her down further against him, sitting up higher and shifting the angle, enough to draw a short gasp from her lips.

His hand slid around to her waist, pressing her chest against his as he groaned her name into her lips, before trailing down to her hip again, fingers tight enough to bruise and _shit,_ this wasn't going to take long — she was already almost there, running her nails down his neck, shoulders, digging in to keep them from shaking so hard — his breathing was quicker and rougher — both of their movements sloppier and harder and _shit_ —

"Look at me," he gasped hoarsely, because of _course_ — and of course, she was already this far in, she wanted to see too, the desire beating through her blood in time with her heart, to _see, _remember, replace the memory of love, naked and reckless, in someone else's eyes —

She came first, crying out on several shuddering breaths, eyes squeezed shut, forehead against his and fingernails raking down his neck; hers pushed him over and she barely opened her eyes in time to see it in his like she _needed_ to, the absolutely _ruined _expression on his face, her name a moan on his lips, on the breath she took in.

They came down slowly; she ran her hands up from his shoulders to his neck to his face and kissed him; his hand ran up from her hip to her ribs to her breast and then back into her hair, holding her close even after she pulled away.

He knew. Of course he knew.

The fear was rising up again — he was too close, always too close — and he sighed slowly, eyes closed and expression carefully blank.

"Let me guess," he whispered, running his fingers through her hair. "One time thing?"

"There's so much going on — " she started hesitantly, but he cut her off with a short, bitter laugh.

"There's always so much going on," he said quietly, "first you need to find your son, and then you have another curse to break. Once you've solved this problem, another excuse will rise, I'm sure."

"They're good reasons," she snapped, and he finally pulled away.

"Explain to me how those are good reasons not to take comfort in a lover."

Emma couldn't breathe, she couldn't look away — _god,_ his eyes were _blue,_ blue and broken and fixed on her, always fixed on her since the moment he first saw her, loving and wanting and _needing _and knowing.

She pulled away from him, off of him, but his fingers tightened on the back of her head and he pulled her closer again, to murmur against her lips, "_Give me a chance_," in a pleading whisper. "Until this is over, until we return, give me the chance to prove myself. If you still don't want me then, I'll back off, I swear, but at _least_ give me this."

The air between them was suddenly too thick and too cold, suffocating and sharp and frozen in her lungs.

She opened her mouth to say no, no, not yet, there was too much going on, and just — just eight days ago he was offering her his ship, this was all so sudden — but what came out was, "This doesn't mean anything," in a small, brittle whisper.

"No," he lied, dark sarcasm and bitter resignation, "of course it doesn't, not to you."

This time she didn't say a word, either to agree or refute; he waited for one for a long moment before finally pulling away from her and leaving her colder than she'd been before he'd touched her at all.

"You don't understand — " she started finally, retreating and leaning against the pillow as he watched her dispassionately; he cut her off.

"Yes, I do, that's what frightens you."

Of course he knew.

No one should be able to do that, to _know_ her like that, to look right through her and get under her skin, nothing should have that kind of power, especially not another person, someone who could take her heart and throw it away like everyone else.

"Please don't give up on me," she said quietly, a little pleading, more raw than she'd intended; she couldn't look at him.

He laughed once, harsh and unforgiving. "Emma, love, I couldn't even if I wanted to. I am yours," he added, tone unhappily flippant, "in whatever way you'll have me, I'll never be able to leave you."

She laughed, matching his. "I'm hard to love, I know."

"No, you aren't," he countered, and she could feel his eyes on her, like they always were. "You're difficult to _know,_ you _make_ yourself difficult to know, but you're _unbearably_ easy to love."

Her breath caught in her throat and she blinked quickly several times against an emotion she refused to examine for long enough to name; she had no response, wasn't even sure she could speak, and so she stayed silent, biting her tongue and looking anywhere but at him, until he finally sighed and pulled the covers up over them. The motion startled her and broke the spell.

Awkwardly, almost convulsively, she lay back down and turned away from him, as terribly awake as when she'd first gotten into the bed.

And even with everything, even with how desperately she was pushing him away, he still reached out and ran his hand over her arm again, an invitation to come back to him if she wanted; she tried not to, tried to tell herself she didn't want to, but she was _cold_ and he was _there_ and _I'll never be able to leave you_.

She exhaled slowly and heavily, finally sinking back into his arms and letting him pull her close.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, but if he heard, he didn't respond.


End file.
